


Father and Son

by MaskoftheRay



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alfred is the best, Bruce needs sleep, Clark gets mentioned too, Damian's slight angst, Dick makes a pun, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Tired Bruce Wayne, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, and he has a sense of humor, batfamily, bruce whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-06-07 19:38:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15226407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaskoftheRay/pseuds/MaskoftheRay
Summary: Bruce gets injured and falls asleep on the couch, and surprises Damian when he comes down to watch t.v. (what he calls "cultural learning"). Damian did not know Bruce was injured, and as he is terrible at expressing his emotions, calls him out on it in the only way he can think of. The two share a bonding experience, and the photos of it may or may not end up on the family Christmas card.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note: I do not own these characters, DC Comics does. I love fluff!

“Father?” asked the little boy tentatively. It was a little past one in the morning. The man currently sleeping on the couch grunted and shifted slightly. The boy stood a moment, perplexed and unsure of what to do. Damian Wayne frowned, looking alarmingly like his father, Bruce, did when he was mulling over a particularly complicated case as his alter ego, Batman. Damian had been living at the manor for about a year and a half. In all that time, he had almost never seen his father this… unguarded. Having been raised in a world of strict hierarchy and propriety, it was rare to see anyone relax. After having joined his father, though there was less ceremony than with the League, that didn’t mean anyone was more prone to relaxation. In fact, Damian would have said, if he were prone to say such things, that his father was the least relaxed person he’d ever seen. But he wasn’t and so he didn’t, merely observed it. 

So, when he’d come downstairs to the media room to do some ‘cultural learning’— watching television, which Damian liked, but would never admit he did— he’d been surprised to hear someone snoring there. At first, he had thought it to be Drake, as the boy tended to work himself until he passed out. But no, the snoring emanating from the couch was too deep to be Drake’s… it seemed to carry more weight than his. Then he had guessed that the person might be Todd, given his fondness for acting inappropriately, plus, it seemed the most likely that he would be the one to sneak into the manor to simply watch television. But after some more thought into the matter, Damian decided that the snores were too deep for even Todd’s annoying mouth. So, with curiosity, he rounded the corner to see his father sprawled on the couch, throw pillow under his head, a blanket draped over his feet. He was wearing, to his son’s embarrassment, a tank-top and sweatpants— something not dignified enough, in his opinion, for the patriarch of the house of Wayne. 

Bruce shifted in his sleep again, curling onto his side, and Damian noticed the bandages wrapping his chest and rib area. The child frowned, uncertain of when his father could have received such an injury, as he himself had been patrolling with the older man all last week. With alarm, he remembered the day that Bruce had been flung into the wall in a fight with Killer Croc. Damian had rushed to his side, asking if he was all right. Bruce had grumbled at him and gone about business with seemingly no difficulty. Damian scowled, dark storm clouds visible in his eyes. It was unacceptable for him to not know when his father was injured. 

Damian went closer to inspect the bandaging job Pennyworth had done. He carefully peeled up his father’s shirt another few inches when— a massive hand grabbed his wrist and he was half-pulled on top of Bruce. Bruce blinked slowly, looking at his son for a moment, and released him. He sat up slightly, unable to stop the wince as his ribs shifted with the movement. “Damian? What are you doing down here so— is it late or early?” he asked sleepily. 

“Early, father. You were asleep when I came down here to watch television, as Drake, Todd, and Grayson have informed me it holds much cultural knowledge about Western society,” Damian stated. 

“Right,” Bruce said, sounding a little more alert, “I was working on something down here… must have fallen asleep. Go back to bed, son.” With that, he settled down once more. Damian frowned at this most perturbing response from his father. The man never fell asleep while working, let alone in a place that wasn’t his bed. As if he could sense his son’s continued presence, Bruce rolled over, so he was facing his son. “What is it?” he asked. 

“Why did you not tell me you were injured, father? It could be important tactical knowledge later,” Damian said carefully. Bruce’s eyes widened for a millisecond— so that was why Damian had woken him in the odd way he had— and he sat up again. 

“I didn’t want to worry you. It’s not that bad and I knew Alfred could patch me up,” he said honestly. This seemed to make Damian angrier, as he scowled and approached his father. 

“I would not have worried over such a trivial injury; Mother would have scolded me if I had. It is simply important that your partners have knowledge, so they can assist you as needed,” he said. Bruce sighed, great, he’d disappointed his kid… again. 

“It’s really not that bad, Damian. But, I am sorry,” Bruce apologized. 

Damian froze in his retreat and turned around. Suddenly, he somersaulted and landed on the couch behind Bruce, deliberately jostling his father. Bruce hissed involuntarily at the movement. Damian merely looked at him a moment, letting him know he knew that Bruce’s bullshit wouldn’t work on him. Then he said sweetly, or as sweet as Damian could get, “I accept your apology, Father.” He got up to move once again. 

But Bruce said, “Wait. Damian… would you like to sit with me a while?” 

Damian paused, heart in his throat. He wanted to say, ‘Very much, Father. I have been waiting for you to ask for far too long.’ Instead, he simply said, “If you wish.” Bruce scooted over on the couch so there was a spot on the edge, big enough for Damian to lie down in, next to him. Damian lay next to his father and felt a strange warmth in his heart. 

“So, tell me what shows you like to watch to learn about Western society. Maybe I can recommend something…” Bruce said. 

Half an hour later, Damian halted his response to his father’s question, having realized that the man had fallen asleep. He made to get up and return to his own bed, but Bruce’s arms suddenly wrapped around him in a bear hug. No matter whose child, or by whom one was trained, there was no escaping a bear hug by the Batman. Damian sighed slightly and resigned himself to a long night. 

The next morning, when Alfred when to the media room for its routine cleaning, a surprising sight greeted him. Master Bruce was curled up on his side, hair askew, with his arms wrapped around his youngest son. Damian, so rarely peaceful, was curled against his father, holding one of the older man’s massive hands in his own tiny one. The pair had an afghan blanket covering their feet. Alfred smiled and went to get a few people. Ten minutes later, Alfred came back, followed by Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, and Tim Drake. At the sight of Bruce and Damian, Dick smiled and clutched a hand to his heart. Jason snickered, and was smacked by Dick for being too loud. Tim merely gestured at Damian and withdrew a cell phone with a shit-eating grin on his face. Alfred likewise withdrew a camera and took a photograph. Tim showed the photo to Dick and Jason, who laughed loudly at the sight. This startled Bruce, who sat up quickly, blinking at his boys. 

“What are you all doing here? And where’s your brother?” he asked but seemed to realize as he looked down at the sleeping form by his side. He smiled slightly but soon snapped a hardened expression on his face. “I expect all photos of this to stay within the family,” he ordered, giving the ‘bat-glare’ to everyone in the room. 

“Why of course, Master Bruce,” Alfred promised. The three boys behind him snorted, but likewise agreed. 

Bruce stared at them a moment longer then lay down again, saying, “Wake me when breakfast’s ready.” 

The four intruders left the room. Dick stopped Alfred and begged, “Please tell me that’s going on the Christmas card, Alfred!” The older man smiled, a twinkle in his eye. 

“Oh, without a doubt, sir. This year’s card will surely be a favorite amongst the cape and cowl community,” he said. Jason and Tim exchanged looks, thinking about Damian’s reaction, and started laughing again. 

“I can’t wait to see the old man’s face,” Jason said. 

“And Damian’s too,” Tim added. 

On December 24th, the Wayne Christmas card arrived at Clark Kent’s address. He eagerly opened the envelope, written in Alfred’s hand writing, and laughed aloud at the image. Right in the center, prominently placed, was a photo of Bruce and Damian, asleep on the couch. The inscription on the back said, ‘May you all find peace in this holiday season.’ Clark chuckled again, just imagining Bruce’s reaction when he saw the card. 

December 24th, Wayne Manor… 

“Alfred!” 

“Pennyworth, what is the meaning of this card?” Both Waynes strode into the kitchen, holding the same object in their hand. 

“Why sirs,” said the butler, “I believe that is the Wayne family Christmas card of this year. Is something the matter?” Bruce and Damian looked at each other in disbelief. 

“Great card, Alf,” Jason said, strolling into the kitchen. 

“Can’t believe I’m agreeing with Jason, but yeah. We might have to rename Damian though, Jay. He’s too cute here to be a demon. I vote we change his name to snuggles,” Tim said, snickering. Jason chuckled. 

“Maybe, replacement, maybe,” he said. Bruce scowled. 

“This is not funny, Todd!” Damian exclaimed. 

“You’re right,” Dick said, walking into the kitchen, “it’s cute! And hey, you can’t blame us for doing this! It was Alfred’s picture, and idea. Literally, the butler did it!” The kitchen was filled with laughter after that, even Bruce’s. 

“How long did you wait to say that, Dick?” he asked. 

Solemnly, his son answered, “Too long, Bruce. Too long.”


	2. Not My Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian al Ghul does not know who his father is. He'd like to remedy that. This is the story of how he meets his father, Bruce Wayne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right... because of popular demand, and because I suddenly got a good idea, I've written a sequel— er, more of a prequel— to this fic. This is a ONE-TIME occurrence, and (unless I somehow get more inspiration for this fic) I won't be adding more chapters. So you'll have to be happy with this.

The first time Damian asked about his father, he was six years old. Mother paused in her sword strike and looked down at him thoughtfully. Damian froze. This had never happened before and the newness of it startled him. There was no protocol to fall back on now. Talia shook her head so her hair was flung over her shoulder. She crouched down, arms seemingly relaxed on the handle of her weapon. Damian knew differently; he had a faint scar on his cheek to prove it. Her vibrant green eyes met his murkier ones and she asked, deceptively neutral, “Damian… my son, do you want to meet your father?” Damian froze, wide-eyed. He had not expected to actually receive information about his query. He nodded. Talia’s eyes narrowed and she stood abruptly. As she strode from the room, long hair flouncing behind her, she called over her shoulder, “Continue your drills. I will be back later.” Damian nodded, then realized his mistake. 

“Y-yes, Mother!” he called. But it was too late. She was gone. Damian huffed, picking up his sword. 

… 

A year later, that incident had faded from Damian’s mind. Talia never had gotten back to him about who his father was, and now that he was older, he suspected that she had actually gone to discuss the issue with Grandfather. So that was why he was so surprised when Talia called him into her quarters one evening, saying she had news. Damian arrived as she was finishing brushing her hair, wet from bathing. She settled on the bed and patted it, a signal for him to approach. Talia handed him the hairbrush and Damian took a fistful of his mother’s long, silky hair and brushed, careful not to yank too hard. Nothing displeased her quite like that. Damian knew first-hand. There was silence, save for the sound of hair being brushed. Abruptly, Talia said, “My son. I called you here today because I have news. You are to meet your father tomorrow. He will be arriving here shortly, and I wanted to prepare you. Do not dishonor the house of al Ghul.” 

Damian paused momentarily in his brushing, but shook his head and continued. There was another beat of silence in the room before Damian said in a clear voice, “Yes, Mother.” They lapsed into silence again. After he was done brushing her hair, Talia dismissed him back to his quarters. On the way, Damian clutched at his stomach, feeling almost as if he would be sick, it was churning so much. And his pulse— it was erratic and he felt tingly pin-pricks all over his skin. What was wrong with him? Had he been poisoned? Just as he decided that yes, he had been, Damian realized something, and it was like a bucket of ice water had been thrown on him; he would never sleep in again, after the first time that had happened. Nothing was quite so cold as water fresh from the peak of the Himalayas. Damian realized: he was nervous about meeting his father. He huffed, and snarled at himself: “Stupid.” But the butterflies didn’t go away. Damian reached his room and slammed the door. 

Damian’s father was tall, dressed in black, and had a deep scar running across his cheek. Damian was surprised, because thought he was good-looking, he was not devastatingly handsome— as his Mother, in his mind, only deserved to be loved by a man such as that. Also, Damian frowned slightly, he looked nothing like him. Though, Damian supposed, that would be because of the superior al Ghul genes overpowering those of a lesser man. But wait, _Damian_ was half of this man, so he had to be worthy in some way. His thoughts were interrupted when Mother cleared her throat, arms crossed. Damian snapped to attention, heart pounding when her eyes flashed, displeased. He would pay for his breach of protocol later. She smiled icily at him when she saw she had his attention. “Damian,” she said, gesturing for the man— Damian’s father— to step forward, “this is your father. Say hello.” Damian turned, eyes wide and took in the man. 

“Hello, Father,” he said solemnly. 

… 

This lasted a month. Then suddenly, one day, the man was gone. Damian realized that it had all been a lie. The man had not been his father— he’d done research on him, in the dead of the night, when Mother wasn’t watching. With a sinking heart, Damian realized, three months later, that the man had only been there to keep him quiet and once the game was up, he had been… disposed of. Damian was quiet and angry for a week after, even short with his mother, until she punished him for it. Years later, he would still have the scar from the ninja attack she had sprung upon him in the middle of the night as a punishment. It was not until another half-year had passed before Damian asked again who his father was. _This time_ , Damian thought, _she would have to let him meet the real man_. 

This man, Damian knew immediately, was not his father. His mother would have laughed at him, if he described how he knew, but it was true… Damian just _knew_ somehow, in his bones, in his gut, that this man was not his father. But at least he was handsome, and had dark hair. He was kinder, sometimes, too, than the last man had been. Damian was happy to play along with his mother’s charade for a while. He did not let on, this time, that he knew. This lasted two and a half months, until one day, the man set down his sword— Damian suspected he was an assassin, thought he would not risk researching the man after what had happened last time— and placed a hand on his shoulder. Damian knew what was coming. He swallowed. 

The man sighed and crouched down, looking him in the eyes. “Kid, Damian…” he began. Damian nodded, eyes stinging. He bat away the wetness angrily. “You know I’m not your father, right?” 

Damian nodded, and when the lump in his throat wasn’t so large, he retorted sharply, “Yes, I have known since day one. I was trying to keep you alive, since— since you were kind to me. Now Mother will have to kill you, like the last one.” The man smirked, but there was a tension behind it. 

“Not if I escape first. Listen, you’re not a bad kid, alright? I’m sure you’ll get to meet your real father someday,” the man said, and opened his arms. Damian ran into them, and sniffed. The man squeezed hard and patted his shoulder once. He let go, already jogging from the room. “Gotta run!” he said, and winked. But Damian could still see the tightness behind his eyes. Damian nodded. Two weeks later, they brought him the man’s sword to keep. It was a fine sword, but Damian hated it all the same. 

… 

It was a little under two years before Damian tried again. His heart had still not quite recovered from the last time and he swore that if he was lied to again, he would never look for his father again. This time, Damian asked his mother during dinner. “Mother,” he said clearly, setting down his glass of water, “I would like to meet my father— my _real_ father.” There was silence at the table. Damian blinked. He realized everyone was staring at him, including Grandfather, eyes sharp and piercing as ever. Unbeknownst to him, a silent conversation was going on between Talia and Ras al Ghul. Talia pursed her lips, and arched one brow at her father. He stared evenly back before nodding once. Talia smiled, before turning stone-faced. She turned back to Damian, her tone reprimanding, “I thought you had learned your lesson from the first two attempts at answering this question. Do not tell me I have raised a stupid son.” Damian hung his head, heat rushing to his cheeks. 

“No, Mother. I simply wish to know who the man is, that is all. If you wish it, however, I shall not ask again,” he murmured. 

Talia placed a soft hand under his chin and he looked up. She was still stone-faced, but it was not marble, at least. “The truth is, my son...” she said, hesitating. Damian leaned forward. Talia took a breath. 

“He does not know you exist—” 

“Clearly, Mother, or he’d be here, with us,” Damian said, eagerness at learning any information about his father overriding his adherence to protocol. This once, Talia let it pass. 

Something flashed behind her eyes, but she smiled, her special secret smile just for Damian. “Yes,” was all she said. Damian nodded, dropping his eyes back to his food. He had pushed the limits enough tonight. Again, unbeknownst to him, Talia and Ras shared a look. 

… 

A week later, Talia called him to the official meeting room. She held a manila folder in her hand and Damian’s heart leapt when he saw it. “Here is the information about your father. His name is Bruce Wayne. Read it and come to me with any questions you have,” Mother said, stalking away. Damian settled onto the floor, cross-legged, and devoured the contents of the file. 

… 

An hour later, he frowned, eyes stinging again. It could not be. It could not be. From what he had read of this… this Bruce Wayne, the man was a worthless idiot. He was rich, it was true, but the league _had_ riches far beyond the dreams of even a billionaire. He could not understand. Had he resulted from a one-night stand? Had he been an _accident_? But no— mother always called him her special little boy, said he was designed to be the best. But… was that all a lie, like his other two ‘fathers’? Damian grabbed the file and marched to his mother’s room. 

He barged in without knocking and Talia’s eyes flashed, before calming as she saw his distress. “What is wrong, my son?” she asked. 

“My father— he cannot be— is he really Bruce Wayne?” Damian asked, unable to keep the distressed tremble from his throat. 

“Would you like to meet him?” Talia asked. And Damian noticed, she had bags packed already. 

“Yes,” he said, sallow feeling in his stomach telling him he’d have no choice anyways. 

… 

The trip to Gotham city was tense. Damian grew more nervous as they arrived. An older man opened the door at the manor, barely showing surprise when he saw who it was. But he looked at Damian with something like… curiosity. “Ah… one moment, Miss Talia. Master Bruce is in the basement. I shall retrieve him right away. Make yourselves comfortable in the study,” the man said, hurrying away. Talia sat serenely on the couch, brushing her hair over one shoulder. She was wearing a green dress, with silver and pink flowers imprinted over the light, flowing material. She wore lipstick and dark black shoes— high heels— that Damian had never seen before. His contemplation was interrupted by the door opening. 

A tall man, broad shoulders, tapered to a thinner waist, long, thick legs, feet in black oxfords, huge hands. Pale, as in white, skin, black hair… and oh, Damian’s eyes widened a little. He had not noticed how much like himself the man looked, from the photos. And this man, not only did he look like Damian, he was _devastatingly_ handsome too… and Damian realized, mother, dressed strangely as she was, was trying to impress him. He started, heart pounding. He looked sharply again at the man, reevaluating everything he’d thought, and saw, that the man was observing him too. Bruce Wayne frowned slightly at him, when he saw that Damian had seen that he was looking, and turned to Talia. 

“Talia,” he said stiffly, not sitting, “to what do I owe… the pleasure. And who, may I ask, is this?” He turned to look at Damian, a hint of curiosity behind his sharp blue eyes. Damian’s heart could not take much more of this. 

“This,” mother said, pushing him lightly from the couch, “is your son, Damian al Ghul-Wayne.” Damian stood shakily, and bowed a little. 

“H-hello, Father,” he said. 

… 

For not knowing that he existed, Bruce took the shock of suddenly having a son quite well, from what Damian observed. Not at all in the way he had expected when Mother had first given him the files on Brue Wayne. But, Damian supposed, there had to be reasons she liked him. Perhaps his hidden depth was one of them. After Talia had made the proclamation, Bruce stilled a moment. He looked at Talia sharply, opened his mouth, shut it, and turned to look at Damian. 

“Do you mind waiting outside? Alfred can bring you a snack in the kitchen. Your mother and I need to… discuss some things,” Bruce— Father— said to him. Damian knew when he was being dismissed, it just wasn’t done this politely, usually. 

“Yes, sir,” he said, stepping outside. Unsurprisingly, this ‘Alfred’ was already waiting to whisk him away. 

“Do you like cookies, young sir?” he asked. Damian swallowed, unsure. 

… 

When Damian came back, Bruce looked… displeased. Talia had her bags in hand. She was saying something, but cut herself off when she saw Damian’s head appear in the room. Damian’s eyes looked at her bags, and noticed that his were not with hers. His eyes widened. “Damian,” mother said, setting her bags down by the door, “you will be staying with your father for now… come here, give your mother a hug goodbye.” Damian ran into her arms and she hugged him gently, kissing his hair. Abruptly, she straightened up and retrieved her bags. She looked back over her shoulder, eyes meeting his, and said, “Be good for your father,” before Alfred shut the door and Damian was left alone with his father. He turned to look at the man, whose arms were crossed. 

“Tell me what your mother told you about me,” he said, a surprisingly-intelligent tone behind that inquiry. 

“I—” Damian began, not wanting to sound rude. The man sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers, eyes closing. The tension was evident. 

“It’s okay, I know about the league,” he said. 

Damian’s mouth dropped open, and he must have made a noise, because the man opened his eyes, but they soon narrowed again at the expression he saw on Damian’s face. “She didn’t tell you, did she?” he asked, but Damian thought it was more of a reflexive question so he said nothing. Bruce sighed, looking around. Finally, he looked at Damian again, eyes sharp. 

“Attack me,” he said. Damian hesitated, not wanting to be rude to his father. Sure, the man was large, and obviously fit, but Talia had not said he’d had any special training. Damian had. He had been trained almost since birth. He did not want to attack his father and hurt the man. Father sighed, rolling up the sleeves of his sweater. 

Almost as if he’d read Damian’s mind, he said, “You won’t hurt me. I promise. At this point, I think I know what kind of information, exactly, Talia gave you about me. I am not happy with her.” Damian snarled, and flew at his father. No one insulted mother. 

After the first few times of being flipped, dropped, and stopped, Damian blinked, and abruptly stopped his attack. He realized, feeling the flush of shame in his cheeks, that Bruce, father, had deliberately provoked him. And he’d fallen for it. But, Damian also realized, the man was _right_. Damian had not been able to even touch him. Clearly, he was trained. This was very unexpected. Bruce, upon seeing Damian stop struggling, sighed. He crouched down, crystal blue eyes level with Damian’s. “She didn’t tell you anything, did she?” he muttered aloud. Then, he straightened up, and turned, going to the large grandfather clock in the corner. “Alright, guess I’ll have to tell you then,” he said, moving the hands on the clock until the secret passage was revealed, “come with me, Damian.” Damian rose from the floor and followed his father down. Down the dark stairs, down into the massive cave. He spun around, mouth agape. Father was standing in front of a case of armor, and suddenly something clicked. Damian’s eyes widened and his mouth opened. Father looked at him, amused, and said, “Yes. What your mother neglected to mention is that… I’m Batman.” Damian nodded, lost for words. _Yes_ , he thought, _she certainly had neglected to tell me that…_


End file.
